Perfect Kind of Trouble

by Chelsea Fine

  “But that’s my ride!” I yell, throwing my arms up. “How am I supposed to get home?”

  He starts the engine and flicks the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “You should’ve thought of all that before you stopped making payments.” Then he pulls out of the gas station with sweet Monique as his captive and I watch the last piece of my other life slowly disappear.

  Motherfu—

  “Sir?”

  I spin around to see a scrawny gas attendant wiping his hands on a rag.

  “What,” I snap, frustrated at everything that’s gone wrong in my existence.

  “You gotta pay for that,” he says.

  I make a face. “For what?”

  He nods at the pump. “For the gas.”

  “The ga—” I see the gas nozzle dangling from where poor Monique was ripped away and I want to scream. “Oh, come on, man! My car was basically just hijacked! I wasn’t paying attention to how much gas I was using.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t matter. Gas is gas. That’ll be eighty-seven dollars.”

  “Eighty-se—” I clench my jaw. “I don’t have eighty-seven dollars.”

  He scratches the back of his head. “Well I can’t let you leave until you pay.”

  I scrub a hand down my face, trying to contain the many curse words that want to vault from my mouth. With a very calm and controlled voice I say, “Then do you have a manager I can speak to about settling this issue?”

  He tips his head toward the small gas station store. “My sister.”

  Through the store’s front window, I see a young woman with curly red hair at the register and a smile stretches across my face.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  As I head for the entrance, a few drops of rain fall to the ground, plopping on the dirty concrete by my shoes. I look up at the dark clouds, fat with the oncoming storm and frown. I really don’t want to walk home in the rain.

  A string of gaudy bells slaps against the station door and chimes as I enter the store, and the sister looks up from a crossword puzzle. Her name tag reads WENDY. I file that information away.

  Roving her eyes over me, her face immediately softens. “Why, hello there,” she says in a voice I know is lower than her natural one. “Can I help you?”

  I give her my very best helpless-boy grin and sigh dramatically. “I certainly hope so, Wendy.”

  Her eyes brighten at the sound of her name on my lips. Girls love it when you say their name. They melt over it. It’s like a secret password that instantly grants you their trust.

  She leans forward with a smitten grin and I know I’ve already charmed my way out of an eighty-seven-dollar gas bill. And maybe even found a ride home.

  “Me too,” she says eagerly.

  I smile.

  Sometimes it pays to be me.

  3

  Kayla

  I knew today was going to suck the moment I woke up with a spider on my face.

  A spider.

  ON MY FACE.

  This is what happens when the only motel you can afford is a lopsided building called THE QUICKIE STOP.

  But the spider wasn’t the only thing that kicked this day off to a stellar start.

  First there were the mysterious body hairs on the nightstand that I accidentally touched when I tripped over the 1970s porn rug that coats the floor. A shaggy porn rug—because a flat porn rug just wouldn’t have been gross enough. Followed by the trickle of ice-cold water from the mold-caked shower, which turned out to be the home of my friendly face spider from earlier. And lastly, there was the lovely smell of cat urine that wafted in through the rusted ceiling vent all morning.

  So I’m not exactly in a good mood by the time I’m dressed and ready to leave. But I’ve handled worse. Much worse. This might be a crappy motel room, but it’s a luxury establishment compared to the roach-infested place I left back in Chicago.

  I catch sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror and scowl. I suppose I’m dressed the way one is supposed to be for the reading of a will. A royal blue blouse with a black pencil skirt and black heels. The top is too fitted for my comfort, molding around my breasts and making me feel like I’m on display. And the neckline is relatively respectable but if I were to lean over my cleavage would hang out. Note to self: No leaning. The skirt is worn and a little too short to be considered professional, but it’s the only one I have so it will have to do. And the shoes are scuffed up and old, but from far away they look decent enough. Overall, it’s not my favorite outfit. I don’t like tight clothes that emphasize my hourglass figure. But since my only other options are jeans, pajamas, or the thick gray dress I sweat through in the summer sun yesterday, this is what I’m wearing.

  I throw my purse over my shoulder and grab my car keys. All I have to do is get through one stupid meeting with Dad’s lawyer—the same lawyer who called last week to shockingly inform me that my father had passed away—then I can pack my things and head home. Although “home” doesn’t really mean much when everything you own fits in one small brown bag.

  My eyes drop to the suitcase on the bed and a ball of stress forms in the pit of my stomach. I have no idea what my next move is. Not just in Copper Springs, but in life. Riffling through my purse, I find my wallet and count the bills within.

  Thirty-six dollars. Crap.

  I shove a hand into my bra, where I always keep emergency money.

  Twenty-one dollars.

  I pull off my right high heel, carefully pull up the black leather sole, and lift a precious few bills from the hiding place below—where I keep my emergency emergency money.

  Eighteen dollars.

  So altogether I have… seventy-five dollars. To my name.

  Every other penny I had was spent on my trip out here and I couldn’t qualify for a credit card if my life depended on it—which it might, if things keep going the way they have—so I’m officially broke. And unemployed. And homeless.

  The ball of stress tightens.

  I had a job at a diner back in Chicago, but when I asked my boss, Big Joe, for time off for my father’s funeral, he refused. So I quit—which didn’t go over well.

  Unbeknownst to me, my mother, Gia, had borrowed $20,000 from Big Joe to pay off some old debts. I knew nothing about this until I tried to leave and Big Joe started demanding his money. Since my mom was no longer able to pay him back, he insisted that I work for free in order to pay off her debt. It was a threat, not a negotiation, and I was scared out of my mind.

  My lease was up at the roachy apartment so I packed up my stuff, cashed my last paycheck, and drove out to Arizona. And now, even if I had the gas money to drive back to Chicago, there’s no way I’d be able to afford a place to live and I’d be forced to work for Big Joe until my mom’s debt was settled. And knowing Big Joe, he’d probably demand reimbursement in other ways too, like by smacking my ass or squeezing my boob. Or worse.

  I shudder.

  I’m broke, but I’m not a prostitute. I’d rather sleep on a park bench than let myself be groped for favors.

  Ugh. I might actually have to sleep on a park bench.

  I shake myself from the thought. One day at a time, Kayla. Just get through one day at a time. God. Life isn’t going the way I’d hoped at all.

  I’m supposed to be in nursing school right now with a bright future ahead of me. Instead, I’m on the run from a debt collector, attending unforeseen funerals, and waking up with arachnids on my face.

  Stuffing all my emergency dollars back into their designated hiding places, I exit the motel room. It rained all night but the storm passed quickly, leaving the air clean and crisp, and a lungful of fresh air lightens my mood a bit as I head through the parking lot and climb inside my mom’s car. Although, I guess it’s mine now.

  It’s the color of dying grass, a few decades past its prime, and beat-up at every corner, but I’m not complaining. It has four wheels and doesn’t smell like pee. In my book, it may as well be a limousine.

  I drive through the sma
ll-town streets of Copper Springs and a hint of nostalgia wafts over me. The best years of my life were spent here; first living as a family when my parents were still married, and then visiting my dad every summer after they divorced and my mom and I moved away.

  The cute storefronts and well-manicured streets look every bit as pleasant as they actually are—or were. I haven’t been back here in over five years. My plan was to never return at all, but it just seemed wrong not to come to my father’s funeral. And if I’m being honest with myself, I needed the closure. Especially after the way my mom passed away…

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

  I swallow and concentrate on the road, forcing my mind to stray somewhere else—anywhere else. I easily find the lawyer’s office and park. Then silently give myself a little pep talk.

  I know my dad didn’t leave me anything in his will, which is no shock. He didn’t share his money with me when he was alive so why would I expect his death to change anything? But I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

  Being a descendant of the original town founders, Dad owned quite a bit of land in Copper Springs—including most of the town square, which made him relatively wealthy. The most valuable thing he owned was Milly Manor, his stately home on the outskirts of town. Since it was a historic building, my father always let people take tours and pictures of the place. He was always more than happy to share his home with the people of Copper Springs.

  So when the lawyer called me last week and explained that my father had donated his estate and all of his belongings to the town, I wasn’t that surprised. But when he said he needed my signature to finalize some of Dad’s will papers, then I was surprised—and not in a good way.

  I went through a myriad of emotions: shock, curiosity, bitterness, annoyance. It seemed needlessly cruel for my father to ignore me for five years and then have the balls to ask me to come out to Arizona to sign off on all the expensive crap he wanted to give to other people. Especially when my mother and I lived like paupers and he barely offered us a smile, let alone a handout.

  Nevertheless, I’m here, so I will sign his precious papers. Surely, I can do that gracefully. Or at least without cursing or spitting.

  Turning off the car, I stare at the lawyer’s office door and fidget with my keys, then pull down the visor and fuss with my long hair in the mirror. I already feel out of place and I’m still in my own car. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should have stayed back in Chicago and suffered through the debt payment. Though, even in Chicago I felt out of place… even more since Mom died.

  I immediately shift my thoughts, flick the visor up, and exit the car. There is a time to mourn and that time has passed. Straightening my shoulders, I stride inside the lawyer’s office.

  The first thing I notice is that Mr. Perkins is quite possibly the most unorganized lawyer of all time. Papers and files are everywhere, with no rhyme or reason to their placement, and random articles and pictures are taped up on the walls like this is his seventh-grade bedroom and not the place he practices law.

  The second thing I notice is the guy sitting on the black pleather couch against the far wall. Purple shirt. Dark jeans. Devilish good looks…

  Ah, hell.

  I knew he looked familiar at the funeral yesterday but now, without sunglasses covering his dark brown eyes, there’s no doubt.

  “Daren Ackwood,” I say.

  He grins up at me and a dimple appears. “Kayla Turner.”

  You know how some people are so good-looking you just want to stare at them with your mouth open? Daren is that kind of handsome.

  No. Handsome isn’t the right word.

  He’s beautiful.

  And he has been since he was a kid.

  His dark brown hair is short and styled in a messy way that looks like he just rolled out of bed and into a Hot Guy catalogue, and matches the thick eyebrows arching over a pair of chocolate-colored eyes. A golden tan dusts the skin of his corded neck and the sinewy muscles of his forearms, stretching out from rolled-up sleeves and down to long, sturdy fingers. And his mouth is a distraction in itself, all full lips and white teeth, as the edge of his smile dips into that one naughty dimple on his left cheek. He looks like pure trouble.

  His devastating good looks, in combination with his family’s ridiculous wealth, drew every girl in Copper Springs to him like a magnet—or so I heard.

  After age five, I only visited this town once a year so I didn’t have a lot of time to make friends. I really only had one close friend in town, Lana, who moved away after high school. But when I was thirteen and Daren started doing yard work for my dad, Lana was beside herself, always making up excuses to come over to my house so she could drool over him. It was ridiculous how smitten she was. And she wasn’t the only one.

  Soon everyone in town knew Daren worked for my dad, so anytime I’d meet a local girl she would always ask the same giggly thing: “Do you know Daren Ackwood?”

  The answer was no. I didn’t know Daren Ackwood. I saw him through the kitchen window sometimes, and I was always aware of him when he was working in the yard—especially when he didn’t have a shirt on—but I didn’t know Daren Ackwood, and he didn’t know me. We never spoke. We never interacted. Frankly, I’m surprised he knows my name.

  For a moment we just stare at each other, him seated leisurely with his legs spread apart and me standing in my last pair of high heels with a bored expression.

  “It’s good to see you.” His eyes slip over me with another dirty smile lifting up his clean-shaven face.

  Oh, he’s trouble, all right. The kind of trouble I can’t afford to get into.

  I’ve heard more stories than I care to admit about Daren’s sexual prowess. All through high school, Lana kept me up to date on all things Copper Springs, including Daren the Woman Whisperer—that’s what she called him.

  According to Lana, and every other girl at Copper Springs High, Daren was some kind of god in bed. I doubt any of the things she told me were true, but they certainly gave Daren quite the reputation.

  Regardless of the rumors, I know his type. They charm and seduce and leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake. I have no intention of being a left-behind heart. Not for Daren or anyone else. So I’m careful to keep my expression neutral as I glance over his wrinkled clothes.

  “Nice outfit,” I say. “Did you forget to go home last night?” I raise a judgmental eyebrow, just to drive home my disapproval.

  His dirty smile grows. “Something like that.”

  Whore.

  “Oh, hello! You must be Kayla.” An older gentleman with thick white eyebrows and balding hair and a cheerful expression emerges from a door at the back of the office. His short, round frame wades through the minefield of papers and over to me. “I’m Eddie Perkins.” He holds out his hand.

  I shake it firmly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Perkins.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Turner,” he says. “Though I wish it were under different circumstances.” His cheery face sobers. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Yes, yes. My dad is dead. We’re all sad.

  I smile politely. “Thank you.”

  “I’m pleased that you showed up,” he says. “Your father didn’t think you’d come, you know, but I’m glad you proved him wrong.” He smiles warmly then looks around. “Now where… are my… glasses…?” He pats down his suit coat and turns around in a circle as he searches the pockets of his pants.

  “On your head, Eddie,” Daren says.

  He taps his head until his hand smacks against the reading glasses propped in his sparse white hair. “Oh! There they are.” He smiles as he pulls the glasses down and sets them on his face. “I’m always forgetting where I put them. Now”—he clasps his hands together—“since everyone is here should we get right down to it?”

  I look around and pause. “Everyone?”

  The lawyer pulls off the glasses he just put on. “Yes. You and Mr. Ackwood were the only two reque
sted.” He shoves a hand into his inner coat pocket and comes up empty, muttering, “Now… where is my handkerchief?”

  Wrinkling my brow, I say, “My dad asked that Daren be here?”

  “Yes. Oh, here it is.” The lawyer pulls a yellow handkerchief from his back pocket and starts cleaning his glasses.

  I blink a few times. “Why?”

  Daren answers, “Your dad owes me some baseball cards.”

  I stare at him. “Huh?”

  “You are both here to sign papers, Ms. Turner.” Mr. Perkins tucks the handkerchief into his coat pocket and props the eyeglasses back on his face. “But first we need to go over your father’s will.” He scratches his head. “Where did I put the will?” He looks at his messy desk. “It was just here a moment ago.” He shuffles a few papers around then starts digging through a tall filing cabinet.

  “By the coffee pot,” Daren says.

  “Oh, that’s right.” Eddie smiles as he retrieves my father’s paperwork from a small kitchenette in the corner.

  I love that my father’s will was carefully filed between a set of ceramic mugs and a bottle of powdered coffee creamer.

  “I still don’t understand,” I say.

  Mr. Perkins looks at me and shrugs. “Perhaps your father’s baseball card collection is why Mr. Ackwood’s presence was requested.”

  “It’s actually my collection,” Daren corrects. “Turner was just holding on to the cards for me. Kind of.”

  I look at Daren first then the lawyer. “I thought my father didn’t have any belongings to bestow to anyone. I thought he gave everything away before he died.”

  “Most everything.” Mr. Perkins gestures to the couch. “Please. Have a seat.”

  I look at my only seating option and inwardly groan. Daren is sitting on the fake leather couch with one tan arm stretched over the backrest while the other casually hangs off the armrest, stretching out his broad chest, and his right leg expands out with his opposite ankle propped on the knee. God. Could he take up any more space?